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I often felt similarly disconnected from proceedings. This wasn't generally due to deficiencies in the writing, although odd sentences were plain inexplicable. Also, a few self-consciously 'purple' passages escaped the editor's red pen ("At night the blank coastal strip simmers under a Lucozade dawn." runs one such example). No, it was the sense of déjà vu that unsettled me most.
The suburban 60s and 70s celebrity childhood memoir is an overcrowded field. We're bombarded with tales of fairly uneventful, slightly privileged, middle-class upbringings. As such, this book falls socially and intellectually between Andrew Collins's [[''Where Did It All Go Right?: Growing Up Normal In the 70s]]''
and Stephen Fry's [[Moab Is My Washpot]]. While not as prosaic as the former, it lacks the verve, humour and skill of the latter.

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